After the last human cart vanishes into the smoke, Sorin sweeps her gaze over the carnage.

"Strip everything worth taking," she orders curtly. "Load the goods into the carts. Send them back to the main before dawn."

Her soldiers move immediately, dragging crates of grain, barrels of water, and sacks of coin from shattered homes and abandoned stalls. Broken furniture and bloodstained linens are tossed aside without a glance.

Once the last cart creaks away into the darkness, Sorin speaks again, her voice carrying over the crackle of flames. "That's enough for tonight. Rest. We move at first light."

Thurn said. "You heard her—find a roof, or what's left of one, and get some sleep. We'll need it."

Nyssara steps past a smoking pile of rubble, her pale hair glinting red in the firelight. "Pick the spots with the least screaming," she says dryly, earning a few dark chuckles from nearby soldiers.

Veltha flicks his tail, the scales catching the light as he rumbles, "And no one touches my cake. I'll hang who dares."

Their commands ripple outward, the units breaking off to settle among the ruins. The air hums with the low chatter of resting troops, the distant sobs of captives, and the endless crackle of burning wood.

Karnessa lingers near the four generals. Technically, she is still a commander under Thurn's authority, but she walks with them like an equal.

The next morning, the army moves out. The trail of their march is a long, dark ribbon cutting through the open plains, hundreds of boots and hooves churning the dirt. The air smells faintly of ash, carried on the wind from Deksa far behind them.

In the largest carriage, its reinforced walls muffling the outside noise, a broad table dominates the center. Spread across it is a detailed map of their next target—a sprawling city nestled in a valley, flanked by a winding river on the east and steep cliffs to the west. The parchment is weighted down by daggers and empty mugs, preventing it from sliding with the carriage's rumble.

Thurn leans over the table, one claw tapping against the river's painted curve.

"The eastern gate is their weakest point," he says, his voice low and certain. "The current is fast enough to keep most heavy units away, but my poison will flow downstream. The river will do half the work for me."

Nyssara rests her chin on her knuckles, studying the cliffs to the west. "The walls there will be thick, but the ground is riddled with old mine tunnels. I can collapse sections from underneath and open gaps for our siege units."

Vertha folds her scaled arms, her gaze fixed on the northern road. "They'll expect us from here. Fast units can harry their scouts, keep them guessing, but if we commit to the north, we'll meet their strongest cavalry head-on."

Sorin's eyes flicker between shadow and light as the carriage sways. "They're on high alert because of Deksa. Their watchtowers will burn signals the moment they spot us. We hit hard, fast, and vanish before they can rally. My quick units can cut their messenger lines in the first hour."

Karnessa traces a gauntleted finger along the city's inner streets, her eyes narrowing. "If we force them to retreat here—" she taps a plaza near the center, "—we can bottleneck them. The more they cram in, the easier it will be to break them in one strike."

Nyssara smirks faintly. "Spoken like someone who's been watching sir Mhazul's playbook."

Thurn chuckles. "She's learning. Maybe too well."

The map trembles slightly as the carriage hits a rut, the mugs rattling against the wood. Outside, the muted roar of marching feet continues without pause.

Sorin finally straightens, her tone sharp and final. "We split into our elements. Hit from four sides, and leave them no way out. The city falls in one day, or we've wasted the momentum Deksa gave us."

No one argues.

The carriage rolls on, the map between them already stained with ash from the last city they burned.

-----

The moment the carriage stops, orders ripple outward like cracks through stone. Each general departs with their own unit, the morning sun glinting off steel, chitin, and scales.

Thurn moves along the riverbank, his arachne legs clicking over wet stones. His soldiers fan out behind him, their armor dull and mottled, perfect for blending with the reeds. He kneels, trailing a claw in the current. The water runs cold and fast.

"Perfect," he mutters.

He turns to his second-in-command, a wiry arachne with venom-green eyes. "Release the first batch upstream. Don't rush—it needs to blend."

Glass vials are uncorked, their contents swirling into the river like smoke underwater. The poison vanishes from sight almost instantly. Thurn smiles thinly. "By the time they use thier waters, their bodies will already be failing them."

----

Farther north, Sorin stands in the shadow of a rocky ridge, the wind tugging at her cloak. Around her, her scouts melt into the tall grass, bows and short blades at the ready.

She points toward the distant glint of a watchtower. "Two minutes after the sun dips behind that cliff, we move. Kill the signalmen first. If they get one flare into the sky, we've lost our window."

A scout approaches, whispering, "Patrol, twenty strong, moving along the ridge path."

"Good," Sorin says, a sharp edge in her tone. "We'll use their bodies to block the road. And keep the shadows thick—I don't want a single rider escaping."

---

On the western cliff, Nyssara crouches near a fissure in the rock, her pale hair catching flecks of sunlight. The air smells of dust and iron—old mines. She runs a hand along the ground, feeling for the hollow vibration.

Her shield-bearers stand ready behind her, massive forms in heavy armor, shields like walls. "Collapse points here, here, and here," she says, marking spots with chalk. "Once the ground drops, we move in slow. We hold the breach while the others strike inside."

---

To the south, Vertha coils along the edge of a forest road, her serpentine tail sweeping the dirt in deliberate patterns. Her fast units—slender, lightly armored fighters—fan out in the underbrush.

She gestures with a flick of her wrist. "We cut their supply runners first. No bread, no arrows, no reinforcements. Then we circle back and strangle the survivors."

By nightfall, all four fronts are in motion—silent strikes, shifting shadows, collapsing earth, poisoned water—each piece of the siege sliding into place.

The city ahead doesn't yet know it, but the hunt has already begun.Inside the city.

----

The walls of Virethane creak under the weight of stationed soldiers. The smell of pitch and oil clings to the air, ready for the first hint of fire. From atop the eastern gate, Captain Rholf watches the river churn beneath the drawbridge.

"Current's stronger than usual," a guard mutters beside him.

Rholf grunts. "Spring melt from the mountains. Won't stop a determined army." He scans the tree line beyond the far bank, eyes narrowing. "Still… too quiet."

In the northern watchtower, Captain Lemas leans over the railing, squinting into the distance. He's been on shift since before dawn, and the only movement he's seen is the slow sway of grass.

Until now.

Something ripples in the field—a pattern that shouldn't be there. His gut clenches. "Messenger!" he barks. "Tell the west post to—"

The words die in his throat as a dark shape detaches from the shadows below. A glint of steel, a blur of motion—then silence.

Down in the western district, the miners' quarter smells of damp stone and coal dust. Most of the tunnels were sealed years ago after repeated cave-ins, but a handful remain open for storage.

A group of militia stand near one of these old shafts, dice rattling in a wooden cup. The ground shifts under them—subtle at first, then with a sudden crack.

One man shouts, "The wall!" but the warning is swallowed by a thunderous roar as the street collapses, dragging two houses and a guard post down into the darkness.

At the southern gate, the mood is more restless. The cavalry commander, Lady Mera, reins in her horse as another dust-choked rider stumbles in from the road. His uniform is torn, his face pale.

"They hit the supply train," he gasps. "No survivors. They knew our route."

Mera's jaw tightens. "Then the enemy's closer than we thought." She turns to the signaler. "Red flare—now!"

The flare arcs skyward, hissing, but in the distance, where the smoke should rise above the northern ridge, nothing answers.

In the war council chamber, the city lord slams his fist on the table as a messenger delivers the third report in under an hour.

"Eastern watchtower—silent. Northern patrol—missing. Western quarter—collapse. Southern supplies—gone."

The old general beside him exhales slowly. "They're not attacking yet."

The governor's voice sharpens. "Then what are they doing?"

The general's gaze drifts to the shuttered windows, as if he can see the enemy moving unseen through the dark. "They're closing the jaws."

The last bell of the day has barely faded when the first unnatural howl cuts through the air.

It comes from the east—long, low, and resonating with a strange vibration that makes the iron hinges on the gates quiver. The soldiers on the wall flinch, gripping their weapons tighter. Down in the streets, dogs whimper and hide under carts.

From the river mist, shadows begin to take form. Not boats—shapes moving through the water. Sleek, serpentine bodies break the surface for a heartbeat before sliding back under. The current that should have been their shield now becomes the perfect cover for scaled forms with glinting eyes.

Veltha rises from the water first, his tail curling over the parapet in a surge of strength that sends two defenders tumbling into the river. Behind him, thousands of lesser serpentine warriors clamber up with dripping weapons, their hissed war cries echoing in the fog.